by Jenna Rhodes
“They heal?”
“They do. Slowly but very solidly.”
“Do you intend to threaten me with your army?”
“Do you wish to be threatened? Do you like the feeling of being helpless and at the mercy of one stronger than you?”
“I think there are moments when all of us enjoy that.”
He advanced again. “And is this one of them?”
She put her chin up, as if considering his impertinence. She baited him, knowing that the open throat could be considered submission and this one looked as if he thrived on baser instincts.
“There is a song about you where I come from. It was thought to be a song about a longing for a former realm, a home, but now I know the song is about you. Many of us used to sing it.”
“Used to?”
“Now we know that we are your exiles, those you cast away in fear or hatred. The song now has a . . . a different flavor.”
“I haven’t changed. Perhaps you have.” So he was one of them, the traitors, the rebellious, one of those who would have destroyed her if they could have. Her gaze slid over him slowly. Time seemed to pass on Trevalka much slower than it did on that world the Tide Caller had opened for her. How many generations lay between this man and herself? She could not trace a lineage in his face, rugged as it was, handsome as it might be considered, and yet not familiar at all to her. She thought of those generals who rode for her and then ultimately against her, joining with the rebels who would defeat her. None of their visages matched with the man she assessed now. If Daravan had not died beyond the bridge, he would have advised her, but he was gone, caught in a trap he thought he’d woven too well for it to turn on him. This one, though. He did not have the Talents of the Tide Caller, but he had other strengths she could use. He caught her examination and flashed his smile.
“We may have things to discuss.”
He inclined his head slightly. “An opinion I share.”
“You crossed many roads closed by winter to reach me.”
“Perhaps the sun warmed a path only I could follow.”
She scoffed softly at that. “Speak plainly or leave. I’m tired of sparring.”
He passed by her then and sat heavily on the bed. “Good, because I grow impatient. You opened a path to another world.”
“I did not; my sorcerer did. We were fighting a war. There was a knot of traitors that I needed to be gone, and he found a way to dispose of them without their deaths being blamed on me.”
“Why not simply defeat them? It’s a message that no one would forget.”
“There were complications.”
“There are always complications. It’s part of life. You were unprepared.”
Trevilara shrugged. “I was not aware of the depth of the resistance I would face. Now I am, and they are banished, and my kingdom thrives.”
“My ears bleed again.”
“From what?” Her voice chilled, but she could feel heat in her cheeks. “You’ve been to war. You know that there are variables that cannot be controlled. We’d fought to a standstill. My people . . .” she faltered there. Her people had turned on her, but she had no desire to tell this stranger that. She had other desires, but not one for confession. “It matters only that a solution was offered, and I took it.”
He eyed her, a tiny spark in his dark eyes. Not Vaelinar eyes, she noted; no sign of the magic he should be carrying in his blood and bones. Yet the chains she’d seen told her that most definitely he possessed a Talent although she might not necessarily classify it as such. There were common sorcerers about Trevalka but none with power that could match a high-tiered Vaelinar. She doubted that he carried that blood within him. Her father had tried to wipe out the corruption a generation ago and, generally it was thought, succeeded.
“You have no trust in me.”
“No, I don’t. Have you given me a reason to trust you? You break into my palace. You’ve been harrying my outlying posts for seasons. I have no idea what you want here or why.”
“I want your army. I want you at the fore of it. I want to return across that bridge with such a sweep of power that all bow in Death before us.”
That nearly stopped all words, indeed her very breath, in her throat before she managed, “And what then?”
“Then we rule this new world together. Clean water. Untainted fields. Unquestionable loyalty from the few we allow to live. A new start.”
He knew about the water, then. About the plague. About her misguided attempts to bring an unruly populace that she had lost control of into line, leaving corruption that could not sustain a kingdom. He knew why Daravan had brought the Raymy to his world and what he’d hoped to accomplish and how he had failed.
He reached for her roughly. “Let me show you a way to build trust.” He pulled her down beside him, but she met him eagerly and they made love that was as much a war as it was a surrender the first time.
Then, after the candles had guttered out and the open window showed the darkest of nightfall outside, they made love again, long and slow and sweet, both of them crying out softly and falling to quiet satisfaction in each other’s arms.
That was when Trevilara got out of bed, picked up her crossbow, and shot him.
• • •
Quendius grunted as the bolts hit home, throwing him deeper into the bedding. He raised himself on his elbow, looking down at his flank with eyes narrowed both in pain and disbelief. He levered himself up and swung his legs out of the bed, his silvery skin darkening a bit. “Cold hells, woman, if I didn’t please you, just kick me out.”
Trevilara dropped two more bolts in place, lowered the crossbow to use her foot to cock and wind it, and brought it back up to aim. She watched as he reached down and gingerly plucked both bolts out of the muscles of his flank. Blood began to fountain from him. He looked at the tips before he dropped them on the floor.
“I have no reaction to kedant.”
She set her jaw. She had been counting on a reaction, one way or another. Slight paralysis at the least, mortal illness at the most.
He stood. “I thought we had established a certain bond between us.”
“Trust? We have, to a point. I thought I’d test your veracity.”
He ran a thumb along his wounds and murmured a word she could not quite catch. The flow of blood stemmed and then halted altogether. “If I had been standing, they would not have dropped me. Now that I am standing, the earth pulls at my blood yet my body denies it. My Undead take my injury and heal it, and my blood strengthens them instead of being spilled uselessly. Is that what you wished to know?”
“You said you would be quite hard to kill. I dislike idle boasts.”
He covered the area between them in two gigantic strides before she could tense to move and knocked the crossbow out of her hands. “I don’t boast. These bolts hardly cost me a moment’s pause, except in my evaluation of you.” He pulled her close to him, so close that the sticky blood staining his body glued them together. His fingers tightened into hard bands about her arms.
Trevilara burst into flames. Quendius leaped back, out of range, with a smothered curse. He eyed the ring of fire at her feet, with flames growing so high they nearly licked the underside of her breasts. He stretched his arms out, checking for damage again.
“A woman of definite Talent,” he managed. “I thought it was your gown that burned, but it appears you govern Fire.” He took a step to one side and then to the other, judging the barrier. He smiled slightly before leaning back and crossing his arms about his chest, his wounds thinned to small lines upon his skin. “It must weary you, though, to maintain that. A formidable defense but one so very exhausting . . . draining . . . to your resources.”
“It serves its purpose. You’ll not touch me again, unless I invite it.”
“Perhaps. I was a weaponmaker in my old role on Kerith. I
’ve worked the forges nearly all my life. You’ll find I have quite a tolerance for flame, but I will withdraw for now. Have we an alliance come spring?”
The dew upon her face ran down like teardrops. “To take Kerith.” Not a question from her lips.
“To take Kerith. To leave this world to the dying rabble and to conquer a viable kingdom.”
She considered her options. Daravan had promised to open the bridge for her and had failed, but now here stood another. Not a sorcerer, with Vaelinar Talent she knew, but still a man with abilities she could use. He did not seem properly awed by her, but she would take care of that. Lessons to be taught and learned.
“Why spring? Why not take them unawares now, when everyone is drowsy and hiding from the weather?”
“Because then my men will be rejuvenated and very hungry.”
“Ah. Very well, then. Come the turning of the storms.”
“Good.” He dressed and left the way he’d come in, through winter’s icy window frame.
Trevilara allowed herself a faint smile. She’d almost agreed to what he’d asked. Almost. Winter would give her a decent amount of time to plan.
Chapter
Thirty-Four
Kerith
A BONE-COLD WIND whistled off the high ocean cliffs at Fortress ild Fallyn, drilling its way through stone and mortar and fog-misted sky before skirling into the parade grounds where Tressandre had ordered the assembly. It carried the unforgiving odor of the sea: salty and brisk and unrelenting. Here, the surf pounded on treacherous rock, blue-gray waves that never warmed, never carried a fishing fleet because there were no coves or bays to cradle them, and because the wind incessantly whipped up white caps that rose as high as mountains. Any bounty from these northern seas came seldom and was hard won. It was the last place in the First Home to welcome her people, and they would not have stayed, but they had been given little choice.
Harried relentlessly after the House wars, the ild Fallyn had been forced into a retreat here. At first, the geography had seemed propitious: a hard-driven sea to the west to protect the flank, forests and meadowlands to the east and south to feed the mouth and purse. They had no way of knowing that the Mageborn native to Kerith had warred here first, and spilled their toxins into the ground, and that little harvest could be gotten. Relegated to eking out whatever living they could, as if they were no more than the mud-covered commoners of these lands, they struggled to regain what should have been theirs. The struggle neared its end. It would not be long before the sacred River Andredia and its verdant valleys would belong to her, as they always should have. It would not be long before the cold stone towers that stretched over her now would be used as little more than a lighthouse upon the coast. It would not be long till all she and Alton had worked for came to fruition. She mourned that he could not be here to see it realized. These people standing before her now would feel the vengeance that fueled her, for him and for her House. These people would help her gain the final victories. She could crack open Larandaril like an egg and plunder its hidden riches.
Praised for breeding generations of fine tashya horses, she could not understand why they were then reviled for breeding back the purity of their powers and Talents into their own people. Where did the difference lie? In small minds, unable to comprehend what the foreign blood of Kerith’s mud dwellers had done to the purity of the ild Fallyn. Other Houses had not suffered such deviants, or they kept their mistakes close. Close or dead. Death served best, and the ild Fallyn returned that service.
As for the Returnists, she would send those dissident miscreants back to the hell through which they had spilled. If the ancient history of the ild Fallyns here on Kerith had taught her anything, it was that a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush. Returning to their lost home was as chancy as any bush hunt she’d ever seen.
Tressandre paced the lines, tapping a riding crop against the outside of her knee as she walked, her seneschal Waryn following at a respectful distance. Their breathing could scarcely be heard as the fear pulsing through their blood sounded much louder. She kept her thoughts to herself, enjoying the atmosphere. Her audience put their shoulders back straighter and held their chins up higher as she inspected them, their gaze trying not to meet hers but few finding it impossible to stare straight ahead. It was instinct to watch a dangerous thing when it approached one.
These were the best of their breeding program, the mission she and Alton had laid upon their shoulders almost before they could walk, and the efforts had been arduous.
Tressandre spoke, raising her voice little, enjoying the silence that reigned so her audience could listen. Their attention snapped to her, and stayed.
Her tone ominous, she said, “I have gathered you here this morning because of the hard work you’ve done. It is time I find a reward for you.”
She heard muffled gasps and one smothered cough.
Pivoting on one heel, she strode to the far right of the line. She chose a young man, handsome enough by any standard, even hers. His eyes did not flicker to hers but his chest expanded slightly as he drew himself upward. She tickled the end of the crop about his rib cage. “What reward would you like from me?”
“Permission to subdue the enemies of your House, my lady.”
The corner of her mouth quirked. She stepped onward, returning toward the center. This time she paused in front of a woman, a woman with a drawn face and a slightly rounded stomach proclaiming that she was with child. She had carried three fine sons previously for the ild Fallyn. One had died trying to carry out the recent assassination of Lariel Anderieon. One fell fighting the Raymy years ago and the third while hijacking a rich caravan. All in the name of the House. This woman did not know the fate of her sons and held no great Talent on her own, but she bred back marvelously. “This woman,” Tressandre proclaimed, “is proven. She has given fine children to our cause and stands ready to do so yet again.” She gave the woman a nod before passing on.
Her pace brought her to a stripling, a child not yet young adult whose features did not tell Tressandre if they were male or female, the only distinguishable marking a bracelet about one forearm marking the wearer as a jumper of distinction. Levitation, by far the most dominant Talent of the ild Fallyn, useful in warfare and building. This one would be worth a great deal in the not too distant future. “And you? What would you seek?”
“A . . . a home,” the stripling whispered hoarsely. “To your honor.”
“Indeed?” Tressandre drew the tip of the crop under the youngster’s chin, lifting it so she could meet the eyes. Startling, near gold eyes, with the merest trace of brown within. Strange eyes, even for the Vaelinar. Not so many years ago, a baby with eyes this color would have been left in the wilderness for predators to dispatch. “We shall see.”
Tressandre withdrew to the center of the parade ground, raising her voice only a trifle, enjoying the silence as all strained to hear her, even faithful Waryn still trailing behind her. “I am the sole heir to Fortress ild Fallyn. My brother Alton should be here, standing shoulder to shoulder with me, as I gaze upon the results of decades of effort. He should be here to consult with me upon the reward due you and here with me to confer that reward. He is not. Because he is not, the tasks ahead require my presence, taking me away from the stewardship of my bloodline. Waryn is my seneschal, but he is not enough. I need to ensure that my House will live on, despite the efforts of others to deny us. Today, I offer each and every one of you a destiny. I am asking you to shed your surname. To drop whatever divided loyalties you may have. To reach out and grab a fate I am putting before you. Today, I lift you up and put you in my House. You will leave your cots and find rooms in the fortress. You will say good-bye to the mud that spawned you. You are now ild Fallyn!”
A stunned silence fell, and then a choked cheer or two broke it, and then wild noises, as well as a quiet protest from Waryn.
“My lady . . .”
/> “Hush, Waryn. These twenty have earned it, bled for it, and will bleed again, even more if I ask them to. Without Alton, I cannot accomplish what must be done. With them, I can.” She watched them as they hugged one another and shook fists at their brethren who ranged in curiosity behind the gates to the parade grounds. “Find them new clothes and rooms as soon as you can, and write their names in our books. I will need to learn them, I suppose.”
Waryn gave a half bow. “If it must be, my lady.”
“It must. The machines of vengeance run on flesh and blood, and the ild Fallyn heritage has run low. Now we have been renewed.” She tapped her crop on the heel of her boot, a satisfied smile growing over her face. When she turned on Waryn, triumph flushed her face. “I have matters to accomplish and will be gone a while.”
“I have your back, my lady, as always.”
“I expect no less. When I return, be ready for great things.”
He bowed his head. “From your lips to the ears of the Gods, my lady.”
She laughed softly. “I don’t need Gods. I have ild Fallyns.”
“The Gods tell me I must cleanse their lands.” Bregan tugged at a forelock of hair, ragged and shaggy because he would not let a barber or servant within arm’s length of him with scissors, and scuffed his worn boot in the soil.
“Here? This does not look like badlands to me.” Diort gazed about them and spread his hands in the air. “I am in the First Home at your behest, Bregan. But I have a city. I have lands. I have a kingdom to the east where we both lived well and you trained until you convinced me to come west. I am here at your behest. To tell you that you are erratic and your desires unmanageable is like telling a slime dog that it stinks. What would you have of me? I cannot let you wander about freely anymore.”